


ASMR

by Aelfay



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ASMR, Don’t copy to another site, John is a Saint, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 06:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17462546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelfay/pseuds/Aelfay
Summary: Sherlock finds his personal version of ASMR.





	ASMR

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [АСМР](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886644) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> As posted on the [Sherlock Kinkmeme](https://sherlockkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1534.html?thread=3838#cmt3838) for the prompt "ASMR". 
> 
> Also crossposted to [Ficlet Friday](https://ficletfriday.dreamwidth.org).

“Listen. There’s plenty of research saying this type of stimulus can work to relax tension,” John told him. Sherlock glared. John was under the impression that Sherlock was  _tense._  Sherlock wasn’t tense. Sherlock was just fine, thank you very much, it was all John who had the issue.   
  
John, who had recently bought a pack of six new white vests and had decided that stripping off his overshirt and wearing nothing but his vest and jeans in the flat was acceptable, like some James-Dean type American. Tight vests. White. Practically translucent.  
  
Anyway, the point was, Sherlock wasn’t  _tense._  “I hardly think listening to the sound of someone chopping through non-newtonian fluids is going to add to my mental health,” he said, and John sighed.  
  
“Fine! Try some other sound. There must be one that will make your brain relax a bit,” he grumbled, and Sherlock frowned.   
  
“I doubt it,” was all he said, before flopping over on the sofa so his back was to John’s white-vested person.   
  


* * *

  
  
John was snoring.  
  
It wasn’t  _loud,_  per say, but it was enough that it could be heard through the thin ceiling of the sitting room in the still hush of two am Baker Street. Sherlock glared at the ceiling, bow in hand. John’s rhythm was all off; he couldn’t play when the sounds clashed.   
  
He set the violin down, still frowning as he headed upstairs, but paused when he opened John’s bedroom door.  
  
John, as it happened, slept with no shirt or vest on whatsoever, Sherlock discovered. The scar was on full display in the light of the outside street lamp, the ray drifting through the window like an errant and unknowing spotlight. Sherlock crept closer, making out the different lines of it, and sat on the edge of the bed.  
  
It raised and fell with the next snore, and Sherlock watched as the taut skin expanded and tightened again with the movement. And again, and again.  
  
An odd tingling went down his spine. It was right. A satisfying thing, this, the sound of John breathing, the sight of his skin, knit-together and healing, proof of survival, moving with each breath.   
  
It was several hours before Sherlock crept back downstairs, oddly lethargic, and went to bed, sleeping easily for once.   
  


* * *

  
  
“You found it,” John said, several days later, “Or you must have found something, because you’re much less crabby now.” He smiled at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock paused and smiled back.  
  


* * *

  
  
It was a very bad case. One that left both of them upset: Sherlock because he’d been too late, John because he knew it couldn’t have been helped but he couldn’t reassure Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock hung up his coat with a huff and turned to screech on his violin while John made tea. John sat, drinking it while Sherlock’s sounds grew more and more irritable and higher and higher pitched, then set his cup down.  
  
“Come on,” he said, “We’re going to bed.”  
  
“You’re going to bed,” Sherlock snapped, but John shook his head.   
  
_”We’re_  going to bed. You’ll calm down.”  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, and John planted his feet, lifting his chin.   
  
“Upstairs, Sherlock Holmes, now.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t drop the violin, but he did drop his jaw, and John smirked.  
  
“I figured it out on day three. Your ASMR,” he said, and Sherlock took half a minute to be upset before realising what John had offered, and only taking the time to carefully wipe the rosin off the violin before bounding upstairs.  
  
John shook his head fondly and headed upstairs.


End file.
